


free animal

by stonedgeralt



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia's Black Eyes, M/M, Penetrative Sex, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:22:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28840089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonedgeralt/pseuds/stonedgeralt
Summary: “Fuck me,” Geralt rasps. He takes one of Jaskier’s hands and guides it between his legs, so that Jaskier can feel the slick that has seeped through his trousers. “Please.”All at once, Jaskier understands. “Oh, love,” he sighs. “Oh, Geralt.” He wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, pulling him even closer. Geralt whines; his hips rut forward weakly, and Jaskier makes a sympathetic sound. “Let me help you,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.”---Geralt's high toxicity has a few interesting side effects.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 368





	free animal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LiberaMeDelailah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiberaMeDelailah/gifts).



> So a while back, Isa had a galaxy-brain idea: black-eyed bottom Geralt. It somehow took me nearly 3 weeks to write this, but it's finally done! I hope you like it, Isa ❤
> 
> Thank you to [Dallie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore) and [Amanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucespringsteen) for reading this over (and for being wonderful in general)!
> 
> Title is from the song "Free Animal" by Foreign Air.
> 
> PLEASE ADVISE: As a trans man, I tried my hardest to make this an easy, comfortable read for transmasc folks, but some of the terminology I've used may cause distress/dysphoria.

Jaskier hears Geralt before he sees him, which is a sure sign that something isn’t right. He’s stumbling through the underbrush like a wounded animal. Jaskier leaps to his feet, grabbing the poultice and bandages he’d laid out, and rushes to Geralt’s side.

“Geralt, hey,” he says, keeping his voice steady. “Where are you hurt? Do you need a healer?”

Unsurprisingly, Geralt just grunts, pushing past Jaskier toward the campfire. He removes his scabbards and leans them against a tree, then picks up his pack to rustle through it. Jaskier sighs and follows him. It usually takes a few attempts before he figures out what sort of medical attention Geralt needs, either on his own or because Geralt finally gives in to his pestering.

Jaskier tries again: “I have bandages ready. Let me help you with your armor.” He reaches for the pauldron nearest him, but Geralt shrugs away. “Geralt, stop being an ass and tell me what you need.”

Geralt slowly turns his head toward Jaskier, who finally gets a good look at him. His skin is stark white, dark veins popping over his cheeks and forehead, and his eyes are entirely black. Jaskier even swears that Geralt’s incisors are a little longer, a little sharper, and he has to ignore the thrill that sends through him. Geralt’s hair is caked with mud and a dark, sticky-looking substance that Jaskier assumes is werewolf blood. 

“You’re going to need a bath in the morning,” Jaskier says, wrinkling his nose. “Didn’t we pass a creek on the way to camp? I suppose we could go now, but—” He stops and peers at Geralt curiously. “Is that you?”

There’s a low, deep rumbling sound coming from Geralt’s direction. Jaskier realizes a moment later that it  _ is _ Geralt - he’s growling.

“Geralt, are you alright?” Jaskier tries to reach out again, but Geralt moves away quickly. The growling falters and becomes a whine. Jaskier winces. Something is clearly wrong. Geralt’s toxicity hasn’t been this high in nearly a year, before they had confessed their feelings for each other. Jaskier tries to remember how he’d handled it then. “Please, love,” he murmurs, “let me help you. Whatever it is, you can tell me. That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? Let me take care of you.”

“Jaskier…” Geralt’s voice is strained. His hands are shaking, and he’s leaning as far away from Jaskier as he can without toppling over.

“I’m here,” Jaskier says. He realizes that his tone is one he usually reserves for Roach when she’s been spooked. “What do you need, Geralt?”

Geralt looks at him again. His brow is furrowed in an expression of deep confliction. 

Jaskier softens further. He takes a careful step toward Geralt, arm outstretched, palm upturned. “What do you need?” he repeats.

For a moment, Jaskier thinks he’s been unsuccessful again, that Geralt will turn away and ignore him - or worse, that he’ll limp away into the trees to tend to his unseen wounds alone. He curls his fingers, lets his arm fall. But Geralt reaches out and grabs his wrist. Jaskier looks at him in surprise, bright blue meeting inky black, then yelps as he’s pulled forward. Geralt kisses him fiercely, licking into Jaskier’s mouth with an urgency that he’s never shown before. Jaskier didn’t imagine the sharpness of Geralt’s teeth, either - he tastes blood when one of them pricks his lip. Jaskier’s knees go weak, but he forces himself to pull away. He stumbles backwards, swiping at his mouth with the heel of his hand.

Geralt follows him. He’s growling again, louder now, and there’s a dribble of blood on his chin.

Jaskier holds his hands up. “Geralt,” he says, backing away, “you know I’m willing to do this anywhere, anytime, but I feel like  _ this  _ is something we should discuss when you’re not pumping toxins through your veins. I think that’s reasonable, yeah? So why don’t we just—”

Geralt interrupts him with a snarl.

Jaskier curses as his back connects with a tree. His eyes flick between Geralt’s dark, dark eyes and the gleam of his pointed teeth. A noise escapes him, barely audible, but Jaskier knows he’s been heard.

Geralt is in front of him, now, eyes focused intently on Jaskier’s face. Up close, Jaskier can see the web of black veins more clearly. His poet’s mind conjures up a haunting metaphor involving cracks in porcelain, but he forces it away - this is  _ not _ the time.

With Jaskier distracted, Geralt seizes his opportunity. He pushes himself even closer, parting Jaskier’s legs with his knee. Leaning forward, he presses his lips to the base of Jaskier’s neck. He inhales deeply, and Jaskier feels the shudder that ripples through his body. Geralt growls louder.

Jaskier swallows nervously, in stark contrast to the heat coiling in his belly. “Geralt,” he whispers. 

“Fuck me,” Geralt rasps. He takes one of Jaskier’s hands and guides it between his legs, so that Jaskier can feel the slick that has seeped through his trousers. “Please.”

All at once, Jaskier understands. “Oh, love,” he sighs. “Oh, Geralt.” He wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders, pulling him even closer. Geralt whines; his hips rut forward weakly, and Jaskier makes a sympathetic sound. “Let me help you,” he murmurs. “Take what you need.”

As if Jaskier’s words had flipped some internal switch, Geralt immediately begins moving. He pulls roughly at the front of Jaskier’s doublet, sending buttons and bits of fabric tumbling to the forest floor. Jaskier yelps when Geralt sinks sharp teeth into his shoulder.

“Hey,” he chides, “keep your teeth in your mouth, mister. You’ve already ruined my clothes.”

Geralt grunts softly, but runs his tongue over the punctures in penance. Then he pulls Jaskier down until he’s sitting in the grass, back propped against the tree, and kisses him hungrily - dazedly, Jaskier worries his witcher will eat him alive. Wheezing lightly, Jaskier tugs at Geralt’s trousers, pulling them down as far as he can given that Geralt is kneeling between his legs. He cups Geralt’s ass in both hands, squeezing roughly, grinning when Geralt whines. Geralt’s fingers fly to the front of Jaskier’s trousers, and he fumbles with the laces for a few moments before giving up and tearing them down the seam.

“Geralt!” Jaskier cries. “Good gods, it’s not like you’ll die witho-o-oh,  _ fuck— _ ”

Geralt has Jaskier’s cock in his hand now, his grip just this side of painful. “In me,” he rasps. “Can I—?”

“Yes,” Jaskier gasps, “yes, Geralt.”

Without another word, Geralt stands up and shucks off his boots and trousers. He plants his feet firmly alongside Jaskier’s hips, then leans back on his haunches. Usually, Geralt would tease a little, maybe even make Jaskier beg. This time, he sits on Jaskier’s cock without preamble - it’s clumsy and stilted, yes, but the look on Geralt’s face when he takes Jaskier to the hilt is something that Jaskier will remember forever: black eyes gone wide, brow furrowed, lips parted in a perfect O.

Jaskier hisses and digs his fingers into the dirt. He wants to speak, tell Geralt to move, let him know how good he feels, but he can’t manage anything more than a hoarse moan. Geralt rocks his hips a few times, much gentler than Jaskier had expected. He realizes that Geralt is holding himself back, and that seems to loosen his tongue.

“C’mon,” Jaskier urges, “it’s alright.” 

“Don’t want to hurt you,” Geralt replies through gritted teeth. His legs shake with the strain of holding himself still.

“I’ll heal.” Jaskier thrusts upwards, making them both gasp. “I meant it,” he says. “Take what you need.”

Geralt’s bitten-off whimper sends a pulse of heat from Jaskier’s chest to his cock; the rough bark of the tree scrapes his scalp as he tosses his head. Geralt lifts his hips and brings them down hard. He snarls, rough and breathless, then sets a brutal pace that threatens to shake Jaskier into pieces.

Jaskier does his best to ignore the bits of coagulated blood that keep falling from Geralt’s hair and the fetid gore dripping off his gambeson. He tries to focus on Geralt’s sounds, on the way his grip tightens on Jaskier’s shoulders every time he bottoms out, on the fact that Geralt’s cunt is quite literally dripping with slick.

“You’re so wet,” Jaskier whispers. He slides his hands under Geralt’s armor, squeezing his hips. “You feel fucking incredible.”

Geralt gasps his name and clenches around him. His fingernails dig into Jaskier’s shoulders, pressing against the bite he’d left, and Jaskier swallows a cry of pain. He’s being used, and he’s fine with that - Geralt needs this, and he loves Geralt, and it’s not like this situation is  _ entirely  _ a bad one. Jaskier is quite certain that he couldn’t keep up with his witcher, and he’s content in sitting back and letting Geralt take charge. 

“Jask,” Geralt whines. “Feel so good, ’m so full...” He moves his hand from Jaskier’s shoulder to his own cock, stroking it quickly between his thumb and forefinger. “Oh,  _ fuck— _ ” He increases his pace, and Jaskier can barely hear the slapping of their skin over the rush of blood in his ears.

Jaskier shifts his hips a bit, chuckling at the punched-out sound Geralt makes. He’s starting to feel a bit useless, so he asks, “Can I help make it better?”

Geralt’s breath hitches, and he shakes his head quickly. “’S perfect,” he manages to say. “You’re perfect.”

Warmth blooms in Jaskier’s chest. “You’re just saying that because my cock’s inside you.”

Geralt tips his head back and laughs breathlessly. Even like this, black-veined and blood-spattered, he’s beautiful, and Jaskier can’t just sit still anymore. He leans forward, spilling Geralt onto the grass, and pins Geralt’s arms above his head. It’s more of a gesture than an attempt to hold him down, and Jaskier suddenly worries that he’s made a mistake. He’s just a human, after all, and he’d told Geralt to take what he needed—

“Stop thinking,” Geralt growls, “and fuck me.” 

Jaskier thrusts forward, quick and hard. He uses his free hand to push Geralt’s knee up and back, pressing it against his chest. Geralt gasps, black eyes wide, and bucks his hips impatiently. Jaskier thrusts into him again. The pace he sets is nowhere near as rough as Geralt’s had been, but he knows what Geralt likes and takes pride in that knowledge.

“Keep your leg up,” Jaskier says sternly. He moves his hand down Geralt’s thigh, groaning when his fingers slide through warm slick. “Listen to how wet you are,” he says reverently. “I bet you could take two of me.”

Geralt whimpers. Jaskier flicks his thumb over Geralt’s cock, relishing in the full-body shudder he gets in response. 

“Would you like that, Geralt?” he asks. “Two cocks at once inside your cunt?”

“Jask,” Geralt chokes out. He’s starting to shake, and Jaskier knows that he’s close.

“Stretching you wide open.” Jaskier works Geralt’s cock in time with his thrusts. “Filling you up till you’re fit to burst.”

“Oh, fuck—” Geralt goes completely still for a few moments, every muscle in his body taut. Then he comes, his back arching off the ground as he shakes and sobs. His cunt tightens around Jaskier’s cock until it almost hurts, but Jaskier just steadies himself and does his best to draw this out, despite Geralt’s writhing. Geralt finally breaks Jaskier’s grip on his wrists and wraps his arms around Jaskier’s shoulders, and he chants Jaskier’s name until his voice goes hoarse. 

Jaskier has never seen Geralt like this before, thoroughly out of his mind with pleasure, and he feels so incredibly fond for a moment that he nearly forgets the urge to come. When it happens, Jaskier buries his face in the hollow of Geralt’s throat and sucks a bruise into the skin there. Geralt moans softly and goes limp, panting and twitching with each aftershock.

After a few deep breaths of his own, Jaskier peppers kisses across Geralt’s pink cheeks. Geralt’s eyes have started to lighten again, and the dark veins are fading. Jaskier remembers the exhaustion that follows high toxicity - Geralt calls it a “crash” - and he’ll be damned if he’s about to let Geralt pass out in the grass twenty feet from his bedroll.

“Up you get,” Jaskier says, gently pulling away.

Geralt whines and squeezes his legs shut, his face flushing a shade darker as come and slick leak from his cunt. His expression is almost a pout - he hasn’t quite mastered it yet, but it’s proven effective in the past.

“C’mon, Geralt. It’s not far.” Jaskier gets to his feet with a grunt, then leans down and holds out his hand. “I’ll help you.”

Geralt rolls his amber eyes playfully, then takes Jaskier’s hand. He manages to stand, but his legs wobble like a newborn colt’s, and Jaskier practically has to carry him the short distance to their camp. When they finally make it there, Geralt rekindles the fire with Igni, and Jaskier sets about getting Geralt out of his filthy gambeson. He lays out both of their bedrolls and helps Geralt lie down on his, then fetches a clean rag and their water skin. He lets Geralt drink his fill, then dampens the cloth and presses it gently between Geralt’s legs, tutting when Geralt hisses and flinches away.

“Want me to kiss it better?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt snorts. “Any other time, I’d take you up on that.” He sighs deeply, and Jaskier can tell he’s exhausted. “But not tonight.”

Jaskier hums in agreement. When he’s finished with the rag, he tosses it on top of Geralt’s gambeson. Then he undresses himself and lies down on his bedroll, curling himself around Geralt and snuggling close.

“Are we going to talk about this?” he murmurs.

“Is that necessary?” 

“Not if you don’t want to.” Jaskier kisses the nape of Geralt’s neck and grimaces. “You taste like shit.”

Geralt tries to elbow him. “Fuck off.”

“Make me.” Jaskier tightens his arm around Geralt’s midsection, laughing at Geralt’s dramatic grunt. “You’re alright, though, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand and squeezes it gently. “Thank you. I…” He clears his throat awkwardly, but doesn’t continue.

Jaskier knows, though, and his heart does a funny little flip in his chest. “Me, too,” he says. “Get some rest, witcher. You’ve a reward to collect in the morning, and after that you’re going to have a nice bath.”

Geralt cranes his neck back, and Jaskier kisses him sweetly. He pulls their patched-up blanket over them both and lets his eyes drift shut. 

In the morning, Geralt will gather a trophy from the werewolf while Jaskier packs up camp. They’ll head back to town, haggle over Geralt’s reward, have a bath together, and spend the rest of the day in bed. It’ll be nice to relax after… well, all of this.

And next time Geralt staggers back to camp with black eyes and a wet cunt, Jaskier will be ready for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come chat with me on Twitter [@stonedgeralt](https://twitter.com/stonedgeralt)!


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